


The Mug

by The_Shipper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, unexpressed feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26009521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shipper/pseuds/The_Shipper
Summary: Sherlock's favourite mug breaks one morning in Baker Street
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 74





	The Mug

**Author's Note:**

> This is fic is inspired by the way that I imagine the johnlock kiss. It's my first work so please, if you have the time, give me some feedback.  
> Thanks a lot and have a great day (or night)  
> \- The_Shipper

John has woken up early again. Even though he's stopped working at the clinic for months, he still wakes up at seven in the morning. He drags his scruffy sleepers on the cold tile, makes himself some tea and opens his tablet to read the news and the case inbox. London is having one of its typical days. Drizzle falls from the sky and the early sounds of one of the biggest cities in the world coming alive can be heard. A car horn here, the buzz of people talking there, an alarm going of somewhere. John sits and enjoys the peculiar silence and non silence at the same time, as he does every morning. Baker street is rarely a silent place but that's ok, because John doesn't really like silence and calm anyway. Even when it's silent he concentrates on the noise on the outside. It comforts him. He wants to feel a part of something. The city is always alive, always active, always there with a new surprise to offer. He finds comfort in not being comforted.  
The click of the kettle disrupts his train of thought. He stops midway from pouring hot water in his mug when he hears Sherlock's door opening. He takes a breath and squares his shoulders as if preparing for battle. The minor dose of adrenaline the presence of Sherlock causes, stirs him more awake instantly. John is addicted to that little chemical rush he gets every morning because he never knows what the day shall bring when he is in the company of Sherlock Holmes. So he grabs Sherlock's mug. It's chipped but Sherlock the madman, the mind of the century, the machine is sentimental like that. He gets attached to things that are washed out and chipped. The mug is so stupid, really. Half the stamp has been removed by the multiple washes but it used to say "I wear THE hat" with a sketched picture of the deerstalker hat beneath it. It was a gag Christmas gift from Mary from many years ago.  
Now stroking one of the three places where the mug has been chipped, a half smile creeps on John's face. He silently thanks God that Sherlock likes old, chipped things.  
"Only psychopaths smile this early in the morning and that's coming from a diagnosed sociopath" says a baritone voice from the kitchen threshold. John shakes his head and his smile becomes full. Sherlock's eyebrows knit together and he scoffs while he throws himself dramatically on one kitchen chair.  
"So it's early for smiles but not early for dramatics?"  
John says, with one eyebrow and one mouth corner slightly rased in amusement.  
"Look, John. My intelligence is unmatched and that intelligence feels insulted engaging in a meaningless back and forth when there's perfectly good tea going cold by the minute".   
John rolls his eyes and hands him the tea. Their fingers brush and John thinks the other man has a good grip on the mug so he lets it go a bit too soon. The mug slips Sherlock's fingers and falls on the floor, shattering in dozens of little pieces and spilling tea on the kitchen floor. The both stand still for a few seconds just staring at it. John gets an uneasy feeling in his stomach. The mug had been a reminder of Mary for both of them. Seeing it in pieces pokes a sharp needle on his old grief.  
"I... I'm sorry I thought you had a proper grip on it."  
He says with an apologetic look on his face. Sherlock just stares at him and shrugs but he knows his friend well enough now to recognise that he's unsettled. So John kneels and starts collecting the pieces of the broken mug. Trying to lighten the mood he says "That thing was too old anyway" but his throat is tight and it comes out a bit strangled.  
"I'll help you with that" says Sherlock and it's so unlike him that John jerks his head up in surprise. The detective rarely mingles with chores that have nothing to do with him or his cases. He watches as Sherlock picks up the dish towel and kneels in front of him, throwing the towel on the spilled tea. John nods and keeps picking up the pieces in silence as Sherlock wipes the floor. He raises his head to inform his friend that the towel is soaked now and needs draining when he finds Sherlock staring right at him and their eyes lock.  
At a few inches' distance he watches as Sherlock tilts his head to the side, looking at John as if checking to see if he's alright. Sherlock never knew quite how to deal with his friend's grief, always stepping on eggshells when Mary came up. John nods at him to convey that he's fine and nothing really happened and Sherlock nods back and proceeds to look for any tiny fractures of the broken mug on the floor.   
"It is what it is, I guess." he says with his eyes fixed on the floor, purposely not looking at John. The doctor stops minding the pieces of the mug altogether and sits back on his heels, regarding Sherlock until he looks up. When he does, his eyes are strange and intelligent as usual but beneath them lays a fragility and uncertainty that John cannot ignore. On an impulse, he raises his hand on his friends cheek and softly places it there in a comforting gesture.  
"No, Sherlock, it's ok. Plus, you never guess." he says while stroking his fingers over a sharp cheekbone and giving his friend a real, comforting smile. Sherlock takes a sharp inhale and looks at John with slightly wide eyes, giving him a nod so slight that it would have gone unnoticed were not for John's hand on his cheek. He sits there stone cold, now knowing how to react to the tender gesture so John decides to remove his hand, not wanting to make his friend uncomfortable. As he tries to do so, slightly lifting it, Sherlock's hand comes suddenly and preses it back on his cheek.  
"John" is all he says, his eyes falling on John's lips and back up to his eyes, making both their breathing and time stop. Something snaps and breaks inside John. A need rises inside him so natural and so pressing at the same time, as if wanting a glass of water on a hot day. It's inevitable, it's beyond logic, it's primal and raw. He leans in a few inches and places his lips on Sherlock's.  
Nothing moves, nothing can be heard. They are both in a vacuum. The only thing connecting them to reality is the feeling of skin pressed on skin. Neither of them move for a while. John is the first to come back to reality, the dulled sounds of London gradually invading his ears. He draws back and places another peck on Sherlock's lips before raising a knee to get off the floor. Sherlock opens his eyes and the expression on his face is so new that John can't even try to interpret it. A bittersweet smile takes over John lips and he blinks once in understanding, knowing that this was a one time thing but it needed to happen for quite some time. He moves his hand and under Sherlock's and the other man lets it go immediately, his own hand falling on his thigh. Smile still in place, John's drags his foot from the kneeling position and places it on the floor, rising up. He manages to get his second knee a couple of inches off the floor before long fingers grab his arms, keeping him in place.  
John startles and looks at his friend, a question rising on his lips. Before he has the chance to phrase it, Sherlock digs his fingers on his arms and falls on him. Head on his chest, he whispers  
"I don't know how to do this, John." His voice is so small and frightened that it makes warmth bloom inside John's chest alongside an overwhelming urge to protect him.  
"That's ok too..." he says, picking Sherlock's hands off where his nails have started getting painful and guiding his arms to circle his body. He then also puts one arm around Sherlock and with the other hand he fists his curls, stroking through them.  
"...I'm the expert on human matters" he adds softly, burying his nose in the curls.


End file.
